


The Breakfast Club (RotBFTD Style)

by Otherwise_Uncolonized



Category: Big Hero 6 (2014), Brave (2012), Frozen (2013), How to Train Your Dragon (Movies), Rise of the Guardians (2012), Tangled (2010), The Breakfast Club (1985)
Genre: Abandoned Work - Unfinished and Discontinued, F/M, Rise of the Brave Tangled Dragons
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-12-22
Updated: 2016-11-15
Packaged: 2018-05-08 12:10:03
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 6
Words: 10,698
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5496584
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Otherwise_Uncolonized/pseuds/Otherwise_Uncolonized
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>유웃웃웃유</p><p><b>Elsa, Jack, Eugene, Hiccup,</b> and <b>Merida</b> have nothing in common except puberty. 

 </p><p> At their surface levels, Elsa Sørensen is a pageant winner from Norway, Jackson Overland a reckless hockey player from Burgess, "Flynn Rider" an aloof criminal from South Bronx, Hiccup Haddock a clumsy geek from Finland, and Merida Lithgow a moody outcast from Scotland. 

</p><p>However, one thing they will share is a nine hour detention on Saturday under the supervision of Mr. Alder, aka "Adolf Hitler." According to him, each must write an essay about who they think they are. 

  In the interim of those nine hours, "they would probably write something close to what the world sees of them, and what they have been brainwashed into believing of themselves," but they end the day with a new level of self-awareness and compassion. 

 </p><p><i> "In the one day that they were together they broke their average stereotypical lifestyles and saw each other as people."</i> - obeyprincessluna

 </p><p><b> (Film Adaptation | Gift Fic)</b>

 </p><p>
  <b> (Cover by @kingdomdance)</b>
</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. (--CAST--)

_ _

_"...And these children that you spit on as they try to change their worlds are immune to your consultations._

_They're quite aware of what they're going through_."

**― David Bowie**

* * *

**x - - C A S T- - x**

* * *

Claire Standish \- **Elsa Sørensen** (18)

Allison Reynolds \- **Merida Lithgo** w (16)

John Bender \- **Eugene Fitzherbert/Flynn Rider** (18)

Brian Johnson \- **Hiccup Haddock** (14)

Andrew Clark \- **Jackson Overland/Jack Frost** (14)

Richard Vernon \- **Adolf Alder** _(Tangled's Captain of the Guard)_

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Something to do on the side for fun.
> 
> I'd usually refuse a High School AU or Hogwarts AU request. I resent them, especially if the oldest characters (Eugene and Elsa) are de-aged to mingle among the adolescent group so gosh darn unfittingly. They'd be in or out of college, not with these little kids.
> 
> But "The Breakfast Club" is such a golden classic, and it was on all day for VH1's 80's special, so I didn't mind doing a simple re-adaptation for my cousin-in-law when she thought about her favorite RotBFTD folks being thrown into that universe.
> 
> All is less than 50% supplanted in dialogue, cast, and events. Add-on's, backstories, and characterizations are original.


	2. ❄ - Jackson Overland

If the synonym for "teen angst" had bleached hair, it would undoubtedly take the form of this _James Dean_.

"...You're allergic to discipline and _order_ , Jack."

It wasn't particularly loud ― she wasn't really _shouting_ it ― but somehow it still managed to burn his ears like acid eating through a dish cloth.

"If you keep on like this ― going off and causing trouble ― getting probation for destruction of property ― the destruction of _**property**_ , for _God's sake_ ― then your coach won't even let you back on the _team_."

Jack, who had years of experience in the career of skulking, slouched against the car door with his cheek against his knuckles. Behaviorally unapologetic, bored with the world, and standoffish beyond what was tolerable, his preferred mode of communication was to remain silent during any lecture that had to do with one of the above flaws.

"I just don't want to see you throw your entire future away, Jack. You can't have fun making ruckus _all_ the time."

He was too sleepy to listen. To think. To talk. To _reevaluate_ , or whatever it was parents called it. He'd reached that stage of drowsiness when voices began to swim together and all _linguolabial_ vibrations went underwater.

"And all that time you spend on that...that... _surfboard_ when you could be studying instead? Emma has already become more responsible than you've been these past few months. Don't you have anything to say for yourself?"

"...It's a _skateboard_."

"Excuse you?"

...Jack jiggled his pockets self-consciously. "It's a skateboard," he mumbled lower. "...Not a _surfboard_."

"I don't care what it is!" His mother exploded.

Jack winced, prying his eye open with a sneer.

"You have priorities! You have a hockey scholarship to earn! You have academic exams! You should be _studying_ ―"

"I _am_ studying, Mom!"

"You sure weren't studying Friday! You weren't even at school!"

Jack turned away and stared out of the window. He tried to look at the empty school house through the pearls of dew trickling down the glass. He tried to look at the open gates and not at her. He must've sat there till Armageddon, looking up at the hockey banners of " **The Guardians** " above the entrance, staring flatly at the blur of pictures and words as his heart ticked away like a time bomb.

What he felt under all of his sullenness was aimlessness; the burden of a teenager who was removed from having a solid place in the world like " _everyone else_ ," and being disobedient was his way of getting back at it for not giving him the answers he needed, something adults evidently didn't understand.

"Stop that," whispered his mother, trying to iron the creases out of his forehead with her finger. "You'll put lines in your face if you always frown that way."

He blocked her hand without looking at her.

She shakily lowered it. His mother always found some way to mollycoddle him, and, without truly meaning to, steamrolled the reclusive habit he developed.

"...Mom, come on..." His throat felt sand-papery when he spoke. "I'm already late, and Pops rammed me enough this morning."

She must've felt his private earthquake. "...Oh, Jack..." ― Another look; this one being a bit warmer ― "I know things get rough when you enter freshmen year, but that's no excuse for you to ruin your opportunities. Are you motivated by nothing other than daredevilry and endorsing no plans for future?"

He felt his chest swell with irritation; glaring up at her from the bushy canopy of his eyebrows, shrugging with his hands in both pockets, beckoning her to realize he didn't  _"quite get where she was going with that."_

"Jack, you know what I'm talking about."

His composure went to pieces. "Look, I said I was sorry, but it doesn't mean I'm going to become a _menace to society_. It doesn't mean I _ruined_ my life or... _whatever_ it is you said―"

"It means you're grounded."

"... _Huh_?!"

"You heard me."

"Hel- _lo_! You can't just―"

"I _can_ , and I _have_. As of today, you're not going out on weekends without my permission―"

His pupils dilated. "Wait, _what_?"

"―and that's _final_."

He gawked at her. Studied her. Wanted to hate her.

He hated the way his mother treated him like a child and still expected him to act older.

She stared back, trying to make her mean mug as firm as 'firm' comes. In the end, she caved into her lassitude and dropped her face in her hand. He watched his mother wipe her nose and put her wrist back on the steering wheel to face the road, looking more like a sea turtle washed ashore than a healthy human being. "I'll pick you up after detention, and when you go in there, I want you to behave."

Jack retreated into a satellite disposition, like an absent entity going emotionally MIA. After tearing the skin off his apple with his teeth, he propped it on the dashboard, tossed his hoodie over his head with a salute, and climbed out of the car with the rattling slam of the door.


	3. ⚐ - Hiccup Haddock

If the synonym for "tired" could be entified, it would be the red-letter word for his entire brain right now.

"Will this be the first or the last time that we do this as a transfer student, Hiccup?"

Sigh. "... _Last_ , Dad."

"And no more locker secrets?"

" _No_ more locker secrets."

"No more getting knocked about by the rough-and-tumble gang?"

"N―...How _exactly_ am I supposed to control that?"

His father chortled before flexing his bicep, as if to insert a joke here: "By eating more protein and toughening that back bone of yours, I'd hope."

"...Encouraging."

"And no more _hiccups_?"

"...Is this your attempt at a pun...?"

Deflection: "Now when you walk through those doors, I want you to try to use your time to your advantage."

Hiccup kneaded the knot between his eyebrows. "... _Dad_ , we're not _supposed_ ta' use the time to our ad- _van_ -tage; we're supposed ta' just sit there and...LITERALLY do nothing fer'... _nine_ and a half hours."

"Well, you better figure out a _way_ to do it. You need physical activity to keep those inactive bones from rusting."

Hiccup blinked sardonically. "... _Thank_ you, Dad, for that _motivational_ speech."

He exhaled his agitation. "For Zeus's _sake_ , Hiccup, I'm only trying ta' _halp_."

"And I get it!" Hiccup put his hands up in submission. "I _totally_ get where you're coming from. Help is.. _very_ helpful, and I appreciate it all, Dad. I just..."

"Just what?"

"..." Hiccup looked down, shaking his head. "Nevermind. We'll...jus'.. _.save_ it for another time, I guess." He tried to smile up at him.

His old man softened, but it was more of a tired forfeit. "...If you say so, Hiccup." He cleared his throat and opened the boy's door. "Now g'on, then." He pointed to the school platform. "Off y'go."

Hiccup sighed again. "Right. Off to another... _adventurous_ voyage!" He gave an unenthusiastic pump of the arm.

His father clapped him on the spine, practically blowing his back out. "That should _always_ be the spirit, m'boy."

Hiccup sighed harder. He heaved his sluggish legs out of the truck, hauling his roller backpack behind him. The short freshman looked over his shoulder to look back at his father like a pig in front of a butcher house. Scratching the back of his neck, he lifted that same hand to wave awkwardly.

His father feigned a smile and nodded in acknowledgement, only raising two fingers.

Hiccup's smile shrank. He remained on the sidewalk with his sad eyes trying to make his father look at him as he watched the SUV pull out of the school driveway.

_'...You know, little stuff like that always reminds you how much you disappoint your folks just by being who you are, even if the ways they show it are totally harmless. Well, harmless to them, anyway. Guess they just can't help it.'_


	4. ♞ - Merida Lithgow

A life like hers couldn't be wasted on thinking about euphemisms to poeticize its crappiness; it was crappy and that was dang well it.

"Ah don't want ta' _go_ , Mum. Couldn't aie 'ave done sum'thin' else fer' me Sat'tarday?"

The car ride to _Paragon High_ had been a moving wheelbarrow of silence until this point. Her shoulder angel told the ear behind the greasy curls to just _shud 'dup_ , but the red gremlin on the other said that she must whine, pout, protest, and weasel out of this ― anything to delay the time she could be using to walk on campus and sit her bum down in that dingy library.

"We won't be on about this ah'gain, Merry'da." Her mother had practically become a tree stump in the driver's seat. She stayed glaring into infinity and beyond with both hands clasped to the wheel like an astronaut preparing for lift off, the trembling lip pursed in anger and the forehead craggier than a skerry in Scotland.

Merida bit the edge of her lip as she shifted her eyes from here to there. She turned back to her mother and opened her mouth with a finger held up like a peace-monger, readying herself to grin and _kiss arse_ , but her mother didn't look at her, so she left the finger flop. Forced to accept defeat, the Scot plopped her back against the car seat and stared at the balding Manhattan trees with her kin. They sat like this for the minutes to come, just watching leaves fall like confetti.

"....Are ya' angry, Mum?" the teenager murmured.

" _Aie_." She spun on Merida, her chin jutting out like a tense trouble spot. "A _wee bit_ , lass."

Merida batted the curls out of her eye and shrugged her arms out, sinking back into her seat. "But whut did aie _dew_?"

"Dooon't gie' me _that_ , young leddy. Yer' the wee hen who _never laid an egg_."

In other words, she was a liar.

Merida could feel her mouth making useless little movements; it was trying to get her real feelings out despite her efforts to keep it zippered shut with her teeth. ' _Whaur do yew come from bein' a heidcase wit' me all tha' time? Why'd 'ja dew any of this ta' me?'_

Her mother rotated back to the windshield wipers, adding more to her rant: "Yew are an _heiress_ , Merry'da, and aie expect yew ta' _act like one_."

Merida's shut lips wriggled _. 'Movin' me fram home, brangin' me out here to a land of rammies and kippers...Ye jus' don't care ah'bout me feelin's any'mair.'_

"Whit's the _time_ , lass?"

Merida moved her eyes to the dashboard from under her hood. "...It sez sieven _oors_."

"Joust on tyme." Her mother's voice thickened with impatience: "I done haud it wit' yew, lass. Yew won't lee'sen to yar teachers, and yew won't lee'sen ta' me, so a quiet Sat'tarday'll do ya' well. _"_

"...Can ye speak mair _slow_ -ly, Mum?"

"Merry'da!"

"It's joust haird ta' on'derstand yew when yar bree'then like that, and ma' heid's away."

"To _school_ , Merry'da. _Nao_."

She dropped back against her seat and crossed her arms, grimacing at the mud on her boots. She didn't mean to say it, and while she was in the process of not saying it, she blurted it out anyway: "Den gimme me _haudbag_."

"...You bett'ar get a hold of yarself, lass, before that bottoms gets a good whack."

Merida tapped her foot against the floor until her mother handed her the sack.

―"Nao' here yew go."

Yanking it out of her hand, Merida jerked the car door open ― "Then see yew efter _school_ ,"―and bulleted out, leaving her mother dumbstruck.

The latter wrinkled her nose and reached across the abandoned seat to claw for the door handle, slamming it shut in anger.

Merida didn't watch her mother depart. She kept her back turned to the retreating vehicle as the cold wind blew through her tendrils, pouting to no one but the streetlight. When she was sure she couldn't hear the tires crunching on any more leaves, she resolved to wiping her eye with the back of her hand.

_'Aie wish aie was back 'ome in Scotlund...'_

A life like hers couldn't be wasted on thinking about euphemisms to poeticize its crappiness; it was crappy and that was dang well it.


	5. ☣- - Eugene Fitzherbert

No particular idiom from any glossary could put his status quo into words. He was homeless. Out of foster care. And sleeping on a bus stop.

Short. Sweet. And simple.

"Hey."

Or at least it _was_ short, sweet, and simple until some idiot decided to belch into his ear: "I said _, 'Hey._ '"

"Yeeeep," Eugene hissed as he struggled to lift his aching back off the bench. "Smelt you the _firs'_ time aroun', Cap'n..."

His entire body felt stiff and grainy, like he had just risen from a bed of broken bottles and tessellated ice packs. Shifting his legs to fight the cramps, a cloud of breath left the gaps of his teeth as they clattered with cartoony sound effects, proving exactly how close he'd come to becoming a popsicle on Wakefield bench. Of course, sleeping on this Tempurpedic Mattress until five o'clock in the morning hadn't helped much, either.

"Answer folks when they're talking to you, why don't you?"

Eugene groaned, rubbed his neck, and screwed his eyes up at the interrupter. The cretin was some beanpole of a man looking every which way like he had **_the itch_**. Yet his botoxed cheeks, paired off with that Donald Trump bird-in-mid-flight wig on his head, implied that he had more coins in his trust fund than Eugene had in a week.

" _So_..." Eugene blinked his eyes like they were recovering from staring at the sun for too long. With both hands dangling between his legs, he joined his fingers together and smiled sleepily at his company. " _How_ may I be of service to you, my fellow partisan?"

He had a hunch that he wanted him to get off the bench, but he was going to dance around this until the fellow got tired of playing word-games and scuttered off to another bus stop.

The man suddenly pushed his face into Eugene's, which made the latter lean back like a bug-eyed crow, giving him a VIP view of his wart-hog nostrils. "Whaddya got on you, kid?"

Whew. A rich boy with a hood vernacular. Never a good combo.

"You got anything good?"

The speed of Eugene blinking his eyes increased. "'Cuse me?"

"You looking for some clientele, ain't chu?"

"...Clientele?"

"Ain't you _doing_?"

Oh.

"You _doing_ or not?"

Oh-ho- _no_.

"I'm sorry, but I think there's been a teeny-weeny misunderstanding on your part, so I'm going to take responsibility for _my_ part byyyy _leaving_ ―"

"What's your _game_ , kid?"

" _Game_? No _game_!" Eugene babbled. "I'm not in the business of _games_ ―"

"Don't you know this is where people _do_ at five o'clock sharp?"

Eugene heeded that seriously. He was on a side of the Bronx he'd never been in, a generally nice neighborhood at that, so he couldn't make out any disguised drug pockets.

The rich boy licked his scabby lips and snarled: "Sleep somewhere else, alright?"

Before Eugene could comply, his horror zoomed in on a cop car parked on the opposite side of the street. The officer inside was staring directly at him, looking hard and mean, and rolled down his window to blow a maze of smoke from his nose as he tossed the cigarette. This was no coincidence; this was a set up.

So as _casually_ as _casual_ could _be,_ Eugene reeled up from the bench, dragged his sack into his lap, got his satchel, saluted his authorities, and whistled his way past the bus stop sign.

The cop's undercover volunteer didn't follow, but his Killer Whale-colored car began cruising a little ways behind him, crushing leaves under its damp tires as it rolled down the dew-sparkling road. That noise alone was like a Jaws soundtrack trumpeting in Eugene's ears. If the cop decided to rear up on him, he would probably launch a million cannonballs at his back in the form of 'police friendly' questions:

 _"Where're you comin' from?"_ _"Where're you goin'?"_ _"Which school you enrolled into?"_ _"Where're your folks?"_ _"You don't look like you live in these parts; it's a middle-class strip; what's your address?_ "

And he didn't. His high-end snow boots didn't match his filthy jeans; his suede coat didn't hide his wife-beater t-shirt, and his black eye didn't accommodate his Pantene-styled hair. His whole wardrobe looked half-stolen and half-smelly, both of which were the case. But he wasn't about to _fess up_ to being a "no good tramp" who hopped from one hotel to another and pick-pocketed a few high-rollers by night. Before this, the hotel coat racks he'd been robbing from, coupled with the credit cards he nabbed at the receptionist counter, landed him back on the streets after one suspicion too many pushed him out of his room and into the alleys.

Even gambling at casino hotels in stolen suits and pomaded hair didn't keep the eyes off his back, so he was going to stay as low-key as possible after he shook this stalker off _._

 _"Code One_ ― _we need a cover car at the_ _College of Mount Saint Vincent immediately. Code one_ ― _we need a cover car at the_ _College of Mount Saint Vincent immediately."_

Eugene could hear the cop's dispatcher squawking over the radio. He stalked him no further than the end of the street before turning on his sirens and wheeling away. Eugene took a deep breath of relief, swallowed hard, stabled his mind, and found the station. Got on the metro; got to the Southwestern Bronx; got to East Street, and shouldered past minorities with his mucus turning into icicles, lost in a labyrinth of housing projects, bald trees, brownstone rowhouses, and urban tenements. The people of _East Street_ were as detached, rough, forgotten, and gloomy as the borough.

Poverty had eaten deep into the bones and bodies of its inhabitants, and the idea of staying in this hemisphere for another two years made him tremble more. There was a different world he wanted to throw a lasso around ― the world of money and relaxation; the stable class, not the rickety legs of the poor.

"Get outta the way!"

―A shadow eclipsed Eugene's back. He turned, inching slowly―

"I said MOVE IT!"

A bicycler ripped between Eugene and the other pedestrians like a knife.

"Hey, hey, _hey_!" He caught his balance after the speeder dove into the crossings. " _Watch it_ , you little twerp! What're you, blind?!"

From the looks of it, it was a hell-bent kid who was too high on adrenaline to regard anyone else's public safety.

"Geez..." Eugene grunted, unable to walk much longer.

He was starting to feel queasy now. His eyes couldn't focus, and his knees couldn't stop buckling. Even at this hour, the neighborhood's activity blared all around him in the sounds of speeding taxis, police cars, bikes, laughing friends, ranting hobos, gang-affiliated teens, stoners in doorways checking him out, and half-dressed girls posted on corners. He ignored this little abyss he called home, fueled only by sore joints and a growling stomach. His goal was to find an old terrace he didn't want to return to, but quite frankly had no choice but to.

Fortunately or unfortunately for him, it didn't take long to drag his frozen feet past _Brook Avenue_ , so he wiped his snot with his sleeve, and jogged up the stairwells shoring the rowhouse's upper floors. The two bronze numbers tacked to the door he was looking for were in the same state he'd left them in three months ago: lopsided and dusty. He checked his Rolex watch to clock his arrival; 5:30am exactly. The household's foster kids would be up soon, and the eldest would be scrambling eggs in ten minutes.

" _Well_...here goes nothing..." Eugene gulped. He rubbed his red eyes with his wrist, blinked the sting out of them, and adjusted the lapels of his coat. After clearing his throat, he knocked on the door with a suave smirk.

— "And _what_ do we have _here_?"

The grizzly bear on the other side wasn't who he was expecting to see.

"St - - - abbing― _ton~_!" Eugene sang, trying to turn his terror into a happy chime. "This morning is just _full_ of surprises, i'n't it?"

"...Rider," the Irishman grunted, towering over him like a statue.

Feeling intimidated, Eugene took a step back. "And don't you look just absolutely kipper this fine foreday― "

"Enough talk, Rider." His door-blocker crossed his muscular arms and glared down on him. "What business you got here?"

"Business? Why, my humble mobster, breakfast is my only business. So if you could just find it in your kind, giving heart to—"

"Got tired of sleep'n like a mangy mutt, didja? Well, that's too bad, because yer not gettin' in here. No _detention_ , no _roof_. Those were her rules."

" _And_ I'm well aware of the rules, my friend; that's why I've come to table a negotiation."

"Is that so?"

"It's very so."

Stabbington tried to read his face for about eighty seconds. To Eugene's shock, he eventually stepped aside. "...You're lucky she got's a soft spot for you," he gnarled under his breath. "Make it quick, Rider. She's got a ride to catch."

"... _Bless_ your little heart." Eugene pretended to well up in the eyes before strutting on in. "I always knew you were a man of virtue— "

"Rider, one more peep outta you and you're Rottweiler meat."

"...Understood!"

Stabbington let him inside like a bouncer at a club, before exiting the apartment himself. Once Eugene entered, he took it all in. The unlit corridor, the Sicilian table piled with mink coats, the dead leopard fur rolled out at the entrance, the gypsy beads dangling from the end of the hall, the tacky personality of an 80's gypsy culture. The place was nothing but a crow's nest of Hollywood glitterati, yet a horrible odor tingled against his eyes almost immediately. It was the reek of moth balls, cigar smoke, sweat, sex, Lysol, and lavender perfume melded together in one concoction of _straight up_ _awful;_ the stench was worse than any house in the projects, because it had the natural, putrid quality of filthiness made normal. 

 _This_ was the home he was ejected out of like a broken VCR tape; the dysfunctional sob story that he was trying to get away from; the oppressive foster-care system he wanted to get from under. But for the life of him, carpet never felt so good under his muddy boots, and free food was just a refrigerator away. So for all that, the agony in Eugene's body began to vanish as he walked through the chilly apartment, refrigerated as it was in its _Antarctican_ temperature. The sleepy smile on his face resembled a half-moon hanging off the edge of the dawn sky as his stomach led him to the kitchen. Unbeknownst to him, there were children sprawled over the furniture in the living room. Their bodies were curled around each other's like kittens in a shoebox, their naked backs falling and rising with the rhythm of their snores.

Eugene blinked sporadically before retracing his steps. The book tucked under one's arm shimmered with the title: **The Tales of Flynnigan Rider**. He let his shoulders fall as he sank into a more serene disposition, feeling quietly moved by what he was seeing. The eighteen year old tip-toed over and passed a hand through the eldest orphan's hair, picking the prickly brunette strands out of her eyelashes in order to wake her.

"...Flynn?" Both green eyes widened open.

The corners of his mouth hiked up to his ears as he turned his head at an angle and wagged his eyebrows.

She gasped in full effect, putting her hands to her nose. " _Flynn_."

"The one and only."

She hopped up and down and then catapulted into him, making him lose his breath and his balance. Eugene curled an arm around her back and smiled tightly, trying to get her to ease her grip. She ripped back to hold his face and suction his cheek with her kiss, to which he muttered hoarse protests against.

"Whas' all tha' hullabaloo about?" The youngest boy of the group licked his slob and knuckled his eyes to review his surroundings. It took him some time, but when he found Eugene's face across the room, he sprouted up like a robot having its power switch flipped on. "Flynn. _..? Flynn!_ Flynn! Flynn!" his mouth fired off _._ "You're _here!_ And that's your _face_! Golly...that's your _face_..." he yawned and scrubbed the sleep out of his eyes. "Why's it look like shit?"

Eugene winced at how Rated-R he must've looked. The saggy sandbags under his eyes were blacker than tobacco, and the side of his forehead had a bloody cotton pad taped to it, but he put on his standard facade and bantered back: "Good morning to you, too, _Hamilton._ "

"Well, I ain't _lyin'_..."

"C'mere, big guy." Eugene patted the cushion under him. "Let's get to that warm fuzzy part."

Not thinking anything of his worn state, Hamilton flew into the raggedy teenager's lap and hugged his waist. He belched and giggled when Eugene snatched him up and noogied him. The boy glanced at the other three sleepers and lightly kicked the child beside him so that he could wake up.

"Ow!"

"Hey, hey, _hey_ ," Eugene caught his leg and waved a finger. "Don't _kick_ ; they trusted you enough to _sleep_ around you. You think people want to worry about being assaulted mid-reverie?"

"I'm tryna wake 'im up!" Hamilton bickered. "He sleeps like a log! — Wake up, stupid; Flynn's back!"

"Shad'dup, Ham. No he ain't," his brother mumbled in his sleep as he rolled over. " _Mother_ said he's dead, so he's stone cold and dead down in the graveyard."

_'...Seriously? The love I left behind is just phenomenal.'_

* * *

" _There_ we are." Four mugs were placed on the breakfast table. As usual, the brunette cook carried a smile like that of a woodland elf who could skip from orphan to orphan and sprinkle people with her fairy dust.

Eugene strolled past the group to make himself a cup of joe, whistling the intro to _The Andy Griffith Show_ as he breezed on by. He dried his silky hair with a pink towel, which was damp with an after-shower sheen, and pulled on a half-buttoned dress shirt to replace his torn wife-beater.

Hamilton snatched his mug out of his giver's hands and slugged it down. He then spoke like a geisha instructor criticizing a pupil for not being elegant enough: "There's too much pulp in this."

The brunette was too busy clanging pots and pans to hear him. "Coconut oil, coconut oil...ARGH! We're _totally_ out of _coconut oil_...Well, not to worry then, because I'll _just_ have to use olive oil instead."

Eugene watched her spank the wrinkles in her nightgown before she boosted up on her toes to wrench the cabinets open, making her tilt back until she had to flail forward. He tried not to snort as he grounded his coffee beans in a French plunger pot. She'd grown so much in height that her head reached his rib. She was still way behind in puberty for a twelve year old girl, but her once squeaky voice now had a breathy chime to it.

He thumbed the wet bang off his cheek and hovered his nose over the coffee maker after the blade grinder stopped, fluttering his eyes when the spicy aroma floated up into his nostrils. "Ahhh..." His shoulders sank. "Nothing like roasted coffee to warm up a _dour_ six o'clock morning."

"How can you take making that nasty soil?" Hamilton derided.

Eugene gave the reservoir a shake. "Well, as Roastmaster would put it, we all know the expression "Daily Grind" wasn't coined as something to look forward to, but where _coffee_ is concerned, the daily grind _can_ and _should_ be one of life's _greatest_ pleasures."

"Speak normal, 'kay? All that vocab sounds like a load of Shakespeare ta' me."

"You say that now, but it might do you some good to floss yours every now an' again when you're in a shark tank of high profile people. ― Now be a champ and pass me that mug on the left, would you?"

"Get it yourself, freeloader."

"...Yeesh, alright,  _alright."_ Eugene put his hands up. "Take it _easy_ , Darth Vader."

"That's _Mister_ Darth Vader to you."

" _As_ you wish." Eugene swiped up the female magazine sitting by the boy's arm. "So who's the _lucky gal_ who gets to spend a whole ten minutes with you in the bathroom this morning, 'ah?"

" _Hey_!" Hamilton clawed his forearm. "That's _my_ weekly edition—"

Eugene thwacked him on the head with it before leaning against the counter and biting into a doughnut with one ankle crossed over the other. He brought his coffee to his blowing lips and squinted at the magazine's captions:

 **_Teen Vogue._  ** **_Pageant Fever._ ** **_"Express yourself."_ ** **_99th in Line._ ** **_Miss New York Teen USA._ **

**_All Hail the Queen._ **

Those were the letters spelled out above the photo of a beautiful blonde in a sapphire-studded dress. She was sitting on a diamond pedestal with one thigh exposed through the gown's glittery slit, giving more siren than angel. Topping off her phoenix eye shadow was a sparkly tiara and windblown bangs, followed by a dramatic contrast of blood red lipstick against an ivory complexion, and her cheek was resting against the back of her folded hands as she smirked at the viewer.

"Well, stone the crows and call me _Diptail_..."

"Flynn."

"..."

" _Flynn_."

" _..."_

"FLYNN."

His eyebrows popped up with his head, the doughnut sticking out halfway between his teeth.

Hamilton opened his hand and twitched his fingers. "Give it."

...Eugene pouted and carelessly tossed it over to him like a baseball bat, making the boy juggle it.

Hamilton made a face before swiping the dust off the cover. "And do something about the stupid tent in your pants."

Eugene smirked until he turned around to face the kitchen window and gulped his coffee down at an exaggerated, panicky pace.

"You go ta' school wit' 'er, don't you?"

"Dah — Who?" Eugene's shaky voice sounded embarrassingly high-pitched.

"The rich broad in this magazine."

"Don't call women broads." Edmund slapped his hand.

"What? It's a compliment! She's a fox! — _Ow_!"

" _Guys_ ," Eugene droned. "Enough with the physical abuse."

"As I was _saying..."_ Hamilton paused to glare at his brother. "So can you get me the digits or what?"

Eugene's eyes became narrower than quarter slots. " _Get_ you the _digits_?"

"Yeah, like her number. I'll let you fap to her picture on the weekends."

"...How _very_ considerate of you." Eugene sat down before flinging his sleeves and rolling them back. "Charmander, you don't _have_ a number, let alone a _driver's_ license. Besides..." He shifted in his seat, clicking his nails on the mug. "She has a _type_."

"What kinda type?"

Eugene leaned in and said slowly, "The _rich_ type."

Hamilton smacked his lips and sulked in his chair.

"So why you look so mashed up anyway, Flynn?" The youngest orphan dramatized his gasp with the following hypothesis: "Did you say something mean to somebody and get whacked?"

Eugene turned timid. "Weeeell, not _exactly;_ kudos for such an active imagination, though."

"Then what DID you do?" Hamilton bandwagoned. "Jus' spit it out already, because you haven't been here in three months."

"He's right," Edmund intervened. "You didn't call us; you didn't write to us...you didn't even visit us. Does this mean you're not gonna read us stories anymore, either...?"

"Now...about _that_..." Eugene filed through his brain cells for some kind of time-saver.

He didn't want to give these kids the rundown. He didn't even want to give them the hook. He _expected_ curiosity, but now that he was sitting down with their prying questions, he didn't _have_ the courage to talk about his street crimes or "bench-warming." He told them he'd be rich like _Flynnigan Rider_ one day, but he didn't plan on thieving all of New York to get there.

"Where exactly have you been all this time...?"

Eugene turned around and looked into the eyes of his successor. As she stood there with a cereal bowl in one hand and a plate of bacon in the other, her green peepers never looked more like an abandoned child's than they did then. In spite of herself, she tried to hide her feelings behind a sad smile.

"You sort of jus'... _left_ without saying anything," she continued, pushing a strand behind her ear as she pulled out a chair.

His first thought was to create a web of stories aka lies, but he really didn't have the energy to think of any plot lines.

"...So...here's the _thing_ ," Eugene backpedaled. "Why don't we... _all_ talk about this a little later? Right now, I'd like to get a little re-acclimated and freshen up a bit afterwards. That a fair trade?"

She stared at him anxiously, but then gave him a confusing expression; her eyebrows were frowning, but her mouth was smiling. "...Okay," she said. Naively. Forcibly.

She wasn't okay. He wasn't okay. They weren't okay. But no amount of talking, explaining, or storytelling could change any of that.

―"Ra'punzel's never been more _right_ , dear."

Eugene froze like a rat under a flashlight. The black haze that was fogging his mind before he came had turned into a blissful ozone when he walked into the apartment, taking him into the very mountains of wonderland itself, but now Mother Gothel was bringing that haze back with her _Rattle Snake_ voice. She slithered into the kitchen like a serpent does, swaying her hips to and fro as she rotated the pen-thin smoke pipe between her fingers. The succubus closed the satin robe over her torpedoing nipples and slid her plump bottom into the chair beside him, shimmying closer than what was legal. Sweat started rolling between his shoulder blades.

Mother Gothelwas an escort in her early forties. Although she had her own lineup of brothels, her second career consisted of hoarding as many foster children and cradle-robbed orphans as the terrace could house, and he'd been the former. He made it his mission to not look at her, but when her arm stretched across his wrist to rearrange the salt-shaker, his head went into a tailspin.

"Now why don't you sit here and tell us _all_ about the _lovely_ adventure you've had in the back alleys of New York?" she chirruped, like they were talking about the sunny weather outside, or some Martha Stewart recipe.

The children wrapped an arm around their plates as they ate, not saying a word.

Mother Gothel scanned their heads with a lazy smirk like that of a cat waking up from its nap. When she landed on the brunette, it turned upside down. "... ** _Rapunzel_**."

She flinched, furrowing her brow at her foster mother.

Gothel's pin-prick pupils looked furious and abrupt, before softening down into a relaxed expression as she baby-talked Rapunzel with condescending sweetness, "Be a _darling_ for Mummy and take the children into the bedroom to finish their plates, would you, dear? Flynn and I have rather _important_ matters to discuss."

The children didn't need to hear it a second time; they scrambled up and out, but Rapunzel tried to curb their moods by talking about a new game they could play once they were in the room.

"And shut the door _behind_ you, Rapunzel."

The door was eased shut.

"... _Well_..." Gothel leaned back and crossed her arm over her stomach, fluffing her hair with the other hand. "Now that _that's_ been _settled_..." She opened her mesmeric eyes and gave him her most conniving face. "Let me ask you _this_ ― _woman_ to man and _man_ to woman..."

Jesus, he'd forgotten how scary she was, both psychologically and physically. There were so many demons dancing behind her gaze that he could see Satan making bonfires back there. She also had those villainous laugh lines between her lips and cheeks, but there was still something bewitchingly ungodly in her other assets, like the glossy curls spilling over her shoulders in black corkscrews, the swan length of her neck, the chiseled nose or the lush eyelashes, and the full-figured shape of her remarkable body. She was every fable's classless, gorgeous witch who drank children's blood to retain her beauty, and it was always natural, if not equally horrific, to be seduced by Gothel. Worse yet, her cleavage made it a point to bulge out of whatever she wore, and this morning was no different; her breasts sat there staring at him with their missiles practically stabbing through the robe.

"...What're you doing back in my _household_ , Fitzherbert?" she asked smoothly, resting her chin on the bridge of her finger as her eyes thinned into tapered squints. " _I_ thought we had an _agreement_ ~"

"That I co-signed willingly; I _know,"_ he began, getting his croaks back. _"_ But I was _hoping_ we could...make a few... _amendments."_

"And by _amendments_ , you suggest...?"

"To do everything you asked in exchange for a rooftop."

She looked pleasantly tickled. "To do everything I asked in exchange for a _rooftop_..."

He nodded uneasily.

"... _Every_ -thing?" Her finger traced the delicate, warm skin of his wrist, flowing up the vein in his arm until it rode up the sleeve. "And _why_ the sudden change of heart?"

A tremor spread across every skyscraper in his body.

"You'll be pun-nished severely for keep-ping secrets~," she crooned, flicking his nose.

Eugene looked at her like a stray dog who'd been ran over by a truck.

"... _Mm_." She smiled darkly, looking down her nose at him. " _I_ see. Too _rough_ for you, was it? Couldn't take some getting used to?"

He didn't say anything; he knew his eyes were probably wet with all the struggles he faced, so he tried to keep drinking from his mug. He used to have something for this: a closet where he could put the ache and the loneliness and the fragile junk behind, and every time he needed to forget something or pretend he didn't feel it, he could just sweep it under the closet's rug. But he can't find it now.

"So, _you're_ saying that you'll go back to school and finish detention _if_ I continue to financially support you?"

He shakily put the mug down and rolled a tongue around his lips. " _Just_ until I...can get on my feet."

"Now, Eugene, I _was_ permitted to discharge you from my care after you became a legal _adult_ ― "

Code for: after the checks stopped coming in.

"―but I discharged you because you _failed_ to take care of your responsibilities in school. We made a deal, that if you attended detention and kept those counselors from calling here at all hours of the week, then you'd be able to stay. You broke that promise in the most disappointing way by taking my kindness for weakness."

"I know, and I apologize; I made some mistakes, but I'm here to finally uphold my end―"

"Fitzherbert, if I let you back into one of my bedrooms, you'll have to uphold _more_ than _your_ end of the bargain."

"...Aw'right; shoot me."

"Compensation." The shadows fell over her snake eyes. "I want you to pay for your _own_ commodities, and fork over at least half a month's rent to earn your stay in my household."

Given his position and age, he wasn't even sure if he could be angry right now. He just wanted a mattress to fall into.

"And I can't say I haven't thought of your dreary state in all this time," she lied, and stopped, then added, her voice flowing on in the same tone of saucy invitation, "because there's a bit of a dirty job that needs to be done."

He got cold feet. "It's not... _pushing rock_ for the Stabbingtons again, is it?"

"Nothing of the sort — _but_ , I'm sure you'd like to find _income_ as soon as possible if you plan on agreeing to my terms."

Nodding numbly, Eugene accepted the bowl of cereal she'd been keeping from him. The ceramic ware felt warm and welcoming against his hands, so he spooned his mouth full like a ten year old who'd been locked in the basement for a week.

Gothel's eyes were as wide as plates. While the eighteen year old was wolfing his breakfast down, she suddenly tapped the side of his bowl with her spoon and muttered: "Wouldn't it be better if you could at least _savor_ your first meal of the day like a _proper_ gentleman?"

Eugene stopped spoon-shoveling to look up at her with the milk from his chin pitter-patting the table.

She took a deep breath, and revealed a comely smile, before saying: "Let's get back to business, shall we?"

"I'm all about the business."

"Then answer me this: have you ever made love to a well-heeled woman?"

...He blinked. And blinked. And blinked. "...Could 'jou... _run that_ by me again?"

" _Have_ you _ever_ made _love_ to a _well_ -heeled _woman_?"

And the relevance of that is _what_ , Madam?

"...Define _well-heeled_."

"Classy. _Glamorous_. Filthy rich."

Memories, like an old black and white film, patterned across his conscience like a gag reel. Each came in a shaky footage of flashbacks ― of the bronze balcony he drank champagne on ― of taking the olive-tipped toothpick out of his mouth ― of seeing the grand attraction sitting all alone in the lobby ― of watching her gloomy eyes pan up to his face ― of smirking when her red lipstick curled into a modest smile ― of feeling his hormones explode like a hot air balloon when she innocently touched his knee.

"...Anything come to mind?"

A significant scene was being rewound and replayed in the glitzy cinema of his mind as she said this. One with the same drunken leads, the same disarming heat spreading down the front of his trousers, the same thick drops of perspiration on his eyelids, the same confusing puzzle of lips and vulnerabilities locking together in clumsy kisses. Timid kisses. Gentle kisses. Deep kisses.

Her running her red fingernail down his Adam's apple. Her looking up into his eyes with moist ones of her own. Her pressing her hot mouth against his palm, letting her lipstick stain his fate lines, letting him feel the earthquake in her teeth, letting him know that this was real, that this was happening, and that she was here and she was afraid, but she wouldn't turn the other cheek now.

Part of him wanted to laugh at the whackiness of the event.

"I'm waiting," Gothel piped up.

"We'll just put it this way..." He patted his chin with his napkin and said: "I received my bachelors degree in _cunnilingual linguistics_."

"... _English_ , Fitzherbert."

He tried to word it another way, albeit with more fumbling: "I made _love_ to a well-heeled _woman_...with my _lips_ , basically."

"You performed an oral favor, in other words," Gothel said boredly.

"... _Something_ of that nature."

"And?"

"...And?"

"And what did you get out of it?"

The safe answer was nothing, because Gothel had a _what's yours is mine_ mentality.

"Never got a chance to see her wallet."

"Pity." She obviously didn't believe him. "Well, I know you _pride_ yourself on having 'high standards' when it comes to young women, since anything 'trashy' just reminds you of the gutters you come from, so I thought you'd delight in this particular trade."

A brochure was slid across the table until it hit his wrist. He leaned over his arm and looked at the red roses, champagne bottles, and white doves bordering two paragraphs of Monotype Font:

 _"We long for lavish nights of romance without the responsibility and commitment that comes with a relationship. We want him to be chivalrous, to act as if he's in love with us, like we're the center of the universe."_ ** _The Casanova_** _is a "kept man" who is financially supported by an affluent sponsor. He is commissioned to impart companionship and romance to serial clients, to serve as a chivalrous partner until a contract has ended, and to provide consensual sexual services at behest. These elite clients include socialites, celebrities, patricians, politicians, and monarchal nobility."_

"...Trap services?" Eugene summed up. "You're trafficking me into _trap services_?"

"They're not trap services." She spanked his shoulder with the brochure. "It's a profitable industry marketing the Boyfriend Experience."

"It's prostitution," he panicked. "You want me to be a gigolo."

"As if you weren't a smooth operating womanizer already?"

"Women don't _pay_ me—"

"But they _could_. _Not_ everyone wants nor has time for something real. They want the superficial romance. The illusion. You excel in that without fee, don't you? So then why not serenade women for a price? If they like you enough, you'll be set up in nice apartments with posh neighborhoods, or reside in private villas when they're abroad. Gifts such as expensive clothing and cars will be given to you as well."

Mother Gothel knew how to make everything sound like a nursery rhyme.

Top-dollar women. Silk stockings. Upscale labia. Pressed suits. Fancy feasts.

Diamond watches. Expensive automobiles. Castellated manors. Overseas vacations.

_Money._

**...Comfort.**

... Escape.

Christ, his mind really was just like hers. Even if it was just for a while, he felt like he wanted to bank off that elite league of gluttons, but there was no way this wasn't coming without a price. If Gothel raised foster girls for brothel services, then he'd have a leash, too.

"What's the catch?"

"There is none."

"Let me guess: you want fifty-percent of what I make."

"No more than twenty."

No, siree. The last thing he wanted was Gothel for a pimp. That would equate one slap too many.

"You're already getting rent from me—"

" _Half._ This is to pay off a debt _I_ have."

"So you want me to go along with being objectified for some extra cash you need?"

"You objectify yourself on a daily basis. Lathering yourself in cheap colon in hopes of getting a rich girl to look twice at you; trying to make sure every strand falls into place; using your face to climb the pecking order. On top of all that, you're a philanderer. What's the harm in putting all that effort into your bank account? A skirt-chaser like you? _Huh_."

"I prefer the term pearl-chaser."

" _The_ _point_ is that you'll be rewarded for doing what you do daily: chasing wealth and women. There's no reason to let those good looks go to waste, now is there?"

He'd never even heard of this; he thought it was just something women did. He knew about male strippers, but this was on another level, and the little devil on his shoulder told him that he could play this game. Maybe he _wouldn't_ mind being financially kept by fawning customers. If he played his cards right, he could embezzle enough to run off into the sunset with hidden accounts of money. After all, it was better to choose to be alone once you climbed the ladder; that way you couldn't get hurt, and he'd had enough of that to last him two lifetimes.

There comes a point when you get tired of just living for the next day; you want to live, not simply survive, and he wasn't about to give up his destiny to find that yellow brick road any time soon.

Gothel's sadistic smile sharpened at the corners, while her burning eyes, glimmering with anticipation, started to roast Eugene's face. "Do we have a deal?"

"...I'll marinate on it. The escort part, I mean."

" _That's_ a good boy." She patted his cheek to his sneering dismay, snatching up his chin to add a wet "Mwah!" against his mouth.

He tolerated it like a canary trapped in the grip of a cat, only being able to do little more than turn blue in the face since she still had his chin in her talons.

She reeled in and kissed him longer, vacuuming him in like a moaning lover, and then smirkingly retreated to wipe the lipstick on his bottom lip with her thumb. "I'll have your room set back up before you return home." 

Home. Yeah, right. 

At six-thirty, she called a cab and sent him into Manhattan where _Paragon High_ would be waiting, and suddenly, he couldn't be happier to go to detention.

No particular idiom from any glossary could put his _status quo_ into words. He was familyless. Out of options. And sleeping in the brothel home of a madam.

Short. Sweet. And simple.


	6. Elsa Sørensen

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> My stamina is on the wayside, so please forgive the writing quality. FYI: I absolutely don't watch morning news stations (or the news in general, because the media is bullshit), so I apologize for this sounding...incorrect.

* * *

Because her philosophy was against putting labels on things, she never used adjectives to define her life, but if a nominee had to be chosen, "trapped" would be that runner-up.

**"―We're sorry, the subscriber you have called is not in service. Please hang up and try ag―"**

Re-dial.

**"We're sorry, your call can not be completed as dialed. Please check the number and dial again―"**

Re-dial; don't tremble.

**"―We're sorry, due to heavy calling we can not complete your call at this time. Will you please hang up and try again later. If your call is urgent―"**

Re-dial; let it ring.

―Groggily, _"Elsa?"_

Breath shuddered out of her mouth. "Anna..." The eighteen year old smiled, felt her lips with shaky fingertips, and then lowered her eyes to her lap. "Hi..."A tear dropped off her eyelash. Elsa licked her lips and asked hoarsely, "H...― _ahem_ ―H-How are you?"

―Hesitantly, but firmly: _"Elsa, is something wrong?"_

"No...! No, of course not," she breathed a congested titter into the phone, clicking the prescription bottle against her vanity table in the interim. "I"― _'just wanted to hear your voice'―_ "was just calling for Papa, but if he's not up―"

_"Oh, oh! Papa's up! WAY up! Let me steal 'im―"_

"No, wait! Anna―"

 _"Elsa?"_ a deep voice inquired. 

She snatched the phone off her ear and held it to her chest for a moment. Fear watered her eyes and palsied her hand. After taking a deep breath, that hand slowly pushed the phone back under her tousled hair. "Hi, Papa."

_"Is something wrong?"_

She shut her eyelids and tightened her lips in order to hold her tongue. "Nothing's wrong," Elsa said steadily, but her voice lost balance: "I don't know why...everyone keeps _asking_ me that―"

_"It's just that you sound very concerning. Are you feeling well? Are you taking your pills at night? Is school treating you well?"_

"I..." _'Can't. I can't.'_ She didn't want to tell him that she had let him down. That her scandal was going to be in every tabloid. That she was never going to be his perfect little girl. That the pressure was too much. She didn't want to tell him that she was tired of not being heard. "Fine, Papa...school has been just fine."

_"That's good to hear. Listen, Elsa...your mother and I might not be able to make it back until next month. It's been one disaster after another in Oslo. I know you're used to being there alone, but I just wanted to make sure you knew ahead of time. We miss you."_

_'Do you?'_ "I understand, Papa," she lied through her teeth. "Miss you, too."

_"Thank you, honey. You always understand. Say hello to Kai and Gerda for me."_

"I will."

_"Goodbye, Elsa. We love you."_

"...Bye."

End call.

She looked at the sunrise from her vanity mirror. The orange light made her hair look like fire. It glowed on the silk shoulders of her robe and brightened the puffy redness in her bottom eyelids, the latter of which drooped like wax that had melted on her face.

"Time is of the essence, Ms. Sørensen," her butler said from behind her bedroom door. "Both Weselton and _Good Morning NY_  are waiting."

Elsa wiped her nose with the back of her finger, sniffled, and then rubbed her thighs. "I'll be ready in just a minute, Kai," she answered stuffily.

Once she was, she was driven out of one glided cage to enter the studio of another:

"Hold your head up, Hun. I'm gonna make this quick, 'kay?" 

She tried to keep her eyes on the ceiling as Good Morning NY stylists crimped her lashes with metal curlers, stabbed her cheeks with blush brushes, airbrushed her skin with spray nozzles, and raked her fringe back with wide-toothed combs, but her consciousness was waning. If the make-up artists weren't breaking her capillaries, then the news anchor was skirmishing with her publicist over how long her Miss New York interview could last.

"Ms. Sørensen has to leave here in ten minutes," Weselton complained. 

"She's had this interview scheduled for weeks; it's not our fault she got into a little high school trouble with the principal," the anchor patronized. "Girl needs a better consultant, if you ask me."

"Saddle up, germs and worms!" The supervisor clapped his hands. "Bout that time! Alright then, gorgeous." He bent over to set his hands on his knees and stare into her eyes. "All you gotta do is remember the script, the angles, the improv classes, and look pretty. Be  _natural,_ _personable,_ and above all else, be  _perfect_ _._ Don't make a mistake or get nervous."

Elsa nodded with a false smile, crossed the leg that flowed from the cut in her dress, and patted the bobby-bins in her Bohemian braid. The hair-and-makeup team scrambled away on cue. 

"And in five, four, three, two, one―"

"I'm Donald Walker coming to you live this six o'clock morning with the _one_ and _only,_ crown jewel of NYC. She'll be the first Nordic Yorker for Miss Teen USA in July this year, and hopefully the next Miss Universe to take home the crown. If that's not enough to impress you, let it be known that she's also the only winner to be titled 99th in line for a real life  _throne._ More about that in a bit after we get the scoop on what makes her tick from the princess's mouth herself..." The same man who had been criticizing her five minutes ago was now basking her in admiration. "How are you this sunrise, Ms. Sørensen? Or should I say in Norwegian, ' _God morgen?'"_  

"God morgen," she softly obliged after a bow from the neck. "I'm doing well; wonderful, actually. I had just met the current Miss Universe not too long ago at [Gramercy Park Hotel](https://www.google.com/search?q=Gramercy+Park+Hotel&source=lnms&tbm=isch&sa=X&ved=0ahUKEwiinLGUkqzQAhVCrlQKHVPCA1sQ_AUICSgC). It was one of the best experiences of my life." She smiled at him with a sophisticated sensuality and an angelic placidity, never failing to keep her acting skills in check.

"So America heard! I hear that you also met with our mayor at a hotel sometime this year."

Elsa squeezed the gloved hand on her lap. "Yes, that's right..." 

"I understand your father is friends with him!" he pried. "Is that true? Because he's a powerful man, isn't he?"

"He..."―Elsa cleared her throat and tried to smile again―"definitely has a lot of influence in political circles, so yes, the mayor is one of his associates."

And just like that, he drew back, as if he had gotten everything he needed: "Well, for all the fanboys and husbands who are tuning in just to see her this morning, she's even more heart-stopping than she is on the magazine stands!" he fibbed. "You all at home have no idea how hard it is to sit this close!"

She beamed shyly before turning her head down and closed her eyes to project humility. 

"Absolutely beautiful. Speaking of which, I know we're supposed to talk about Pageant Fever year and all that, but, the real secret America wants to know is: who's the lucky guy in your life?" 

As television etiquette demanded, she threw her head back and laughed before sheepishly grinning at him with crinkled eyes. 

" _Do_ you have a lucky fellow? _Are_ you dating? Because so far the media hasn't been able to dig up any dirt on you." 

"I'm _definitely_ not dating as of right now." 

"Why? There's no reason why a girl like you can't get a boyfriend! You're famous. Or is that the handicap?"  

A stinging sensation spread in her chest like olive oil in a burning frying pan, but she kept up the illusion of perfection. "Weeding out sincere people when you have a name can be hard no matter what the relationship being formed is, but it's not a matter of having a handicap for me. It's just my personal choice."

"You choose to be alone?"

"I choose to be self-reliant," she gracefully corrected.

"Same thing," he laughed. "Haven't you at least thought about the perfect guy? Boyfriends are validations to girls your age!"

She didn't know whether to snort or drink her water. "Life isn't about finding or waiting for the right boyfriend to me. For the most part, I've never felt like I had to get into a relationship just to say I was in one. I can focus on myself more than I do romance, so slowing down to paint "the perfect guy" isn't on that to-do-list. Relationships, from what I can tell, are a lot of work, and I already have plenty of that. I'm a lot happier in my own space without being chained to the idea of another obligation. If I start to feel lonely, I surround myself with family, which is where I think true love lies."

"...You know, usually women who think like that either don't even know what they're attracted to ― let alone want ― and have it sneak up on them later because they've suppressed themselves so much, or they have rendezvouses in private to fulfill their needs. "

She was deathly quiet.

The anchor waited.

"I wouldn't have time for rendezvouses," she finally answered, trying to sound unruffled. "I come from a very studious household, where forethought and higher education are important, so being systematic instead of self-indulgent is crucial. Norwegians in general are more reserved than Americans are when it comes to things like that."

"How ironic. Based on what the media says, I would've called you a passionate visionary instead of a passive utilitarian."

Elsa smiled modestly. "It's two parts melded together. That's why I have a hard time being both."

The rest of the probing interview skated around questions about the pageantry and straight into the rink of media rumors: 

"Word on the street is that you asked your father to get you a nose job and facial liposuction on your cheeks for your 18th, but he said no. Is that accurate? It's understandable, of course."

Hiding her annoyance was almost impossible at this point. "I'm not exactly sure where you got that from―"

"Well, it's sort of a thing rich girls get for their 18th birthday; a little nip here, a little tuck there. Nothing to be ashamed of."

Her smile stiffened. "I like myself just fine."

"There's always room for improvement."

She tuned out after that. His condescending grin was just a cover for him to hide behind while he picked her apart. Tragically, his nice-nastiness had managed to pierce below her collarbone by playing on her biggest insecurity: shortcomings. Pretty soon she would be in the mirror belittling her nose just like she'd belittled her IQ level after receiving a B+ on a pop quiz last year. Almost spending the night in the shower folded up in the corner was even harder to recover from.

The _Good Morning NY_ travesty ended at ten past six as agreed. The anchor didn't bother to say goodbye to her. Most of the staff was a little cold as well. Weselton told her not to take it personally, but she did. She felt like their behavior was her fault. Maybe she hadn't been warm enough to be missed. 

Elsa was escorted out by bodyguards and umbrellas; it was part of her mother's demands that she avoid as much sunlight as possible to stay as white as possible in order to remain globally marketable. Since birth, she has held one occupation, and that was to personify the mainstream standard of the perfect girl. Her elocution must be stately, her manner comely, her weight dainty, her appearance impeccable, and her intelligence peerless, for she was her mother's destined successor to the Miss Universe throne. She had some room to express other sides of her personality through the fashion designs and ice sculptures people knew her for, but a large part of it was still reduced to one half of its full potential for the media. Etiquette, love it as she quite did, had become a cage patrolled by her parents, and no domestic swan was ever happy when it couldn't fly south once and awhile.

However, the choice to stop pleasing her parents, who had her whole life planned out, seemed impossible to consider. At the end of the day, the guilt she carried for being a less than perfect child enslaved her to their expectations.

"Let me get that for you, Ms. Sørensen." Her chauffeur opened the door of her silver Rolls Royce.

"Thank you, Kai..." Elsa climbed inside and scooted to the end of the backseat, allowing Weselton to slid in beside her. 

The ride was wordless. She saw a billboard of herself pass the window and immediately looked down at her knees. 

"King Harald V of Norway wants you to make an appearance at one of his charity balls in June right after you graduate," Weselton said. He was scrolling through the emails in his phone. "A once in a lifetime experience, I'll say!" 

Elsa sighed, not answering. The royal house had never acknowledged her before, therefore it was obviously for press. Weselton was dropped off on Eighth Avenue at six-thirty with a lukewarm farewell. After they arrived on Billionaire Row, Kai opened the car door to the busy sidewalk of 57th Street to let her out. She had to survive through stopping every few minutes to give a little girl an autograph before she was able to walk into her empty penthouse (with the exception of Kai and Gerda), peel off her jacket, and collapse onto the bed. Elsa rolled over on her back and unzipped her halter dress, wiggling out of it until it fell into a puddle around her ankles. 

"Don't forget about detention at eight, Ms. Sørensen," Kai reminded from the wood of her bedroom door again. "Traffic is terrible."  

"I won't," she reassured, trying not to grunt. Elsa jammed her crystal bobby-pins in her mouth as she rebraided her Bohemian fishtail in the mirror. She paused when she peeped the small velvet box on her vanity. She looked at her bedroom door, figuring Kai or Gerda must've placed it there, and then opened it up. Sparkling back was a pair of sapphire earrings. She blinked rapidly before pulling out the folded note that was inside:

* * *

  
You forgot your regalia.  
What's a queen without the earrings to her royal parure?  
  
_~From Yours Truly,_  
_An Irresistibly Handsome Pauper_

* * *

Elsa blanched and shoved the gift back into the box. She tied on her silk robe, walked to her door, and yanked it open. "Kai?"

He came as called. "Yes, Ms. Sørensen?"

Elsa combed the hair out of her eyes and showed him the item, frowning. "When did you receive this in the mail?"

"It was on your doorstep a month or so ago, I believe. I'm uncertain. I simply forgot to leave it out for you before discovering just today where I had misplaced it." 

Shocked, she slowly dropped her eyes down to the box and bit her thumbnail as if the letter was an eviction notice, not a love note. _'How did he get my address?'_


End file.
